Misc Idea 1
by Ampine
Summary: The first chapter of an unwritten backwards time-travel fic. Because apparently, everyone needs to try it. Post-Epilogue.


A/N A scene idea that struck me whilst shopping, and working on longer projects. A bit more crack than my usual tastes but, hey ho. There may be teething errors in the formatting and such, as I'm getting used to this. 

Maverly's proposal had some merit. Raising tariffs on imported goods, while immediately benefiting _certain_ house lords more than might be desired, was certainly a step in the right direction for long-term growth, provided appropriate checks were put in place. The ministry was nothing if not 'welcoming of new contributions'.

All this bounced around inside one Hadrian 'Harry' Potter, as he walked through the atrium by rote. Magical Britain's youngest lord was not a politician. Truth be told, he wasn't sure what he was, or where he should be; too impulsive for a politician, too world-weary for an auror, and too unqualified to be a teacher. That last one, while disappointing, was nothing less than he'd expect from his old Head of House, now turned Headmistress. No amount of prestige, skill and magical power could make up for actual, proven teaching ability

Goodness knows Snape had demonstrated that.

Oh well. Life was what it was, and he could live with it. Life goes on, after all. Maybe in a few years.

A flash of green, angled just so, streaked towards the man across the polished tiles, unseen by its recipient. In any of a hundred other cases, that would be it. The curse would impact, the subject would drop, and the assassins escape in the hubbub. But this was Harry Potter. And he was not 'just another wizard'.

The Man-Who-Won sensed the powerful curse as soon as it was cast. He stiffened, carefully feeling it out for a whole second, before he _moved._

Power gathered about him, and he jumped nearly eight feet upwards, spinning as he did so. His wand spat a panoply of curses, hexes and jinxes, all carefully targeted at the sensed point of origin. Two men were stood there, 20 feet apart, their robes dark and all-covering. They evidently hadn't expected the first attempt to work, but were nonetheless taken aback by his sheer speed. They immediately returned fire.

It was only at this point that someone screamed.

-(*)-

Two of the dark wizards were dead, without question. Magic could heal almost anything, but the stain on one fireplace, and the charred lump by another had unquestionably passed beyond any assistance.

At some point in the fight, three more men had joined, and a pair of witches also. The latecomers were all in their plain ministry-issue robes, save for one. Lucius Malfoy's skills with a wand were evidently slipping with age – helped by a certain 3-year stay on Britain's finest tropical resort, Harry acknowledged with grim satisfaction – and his hood had been blown free of his fine-tailored robes. His blond hair blew freely as he ducked and weaved besides his compatriots, wrath written on every line of his face.

The bodies of two aurors who'd walked directly into a pre-prepared attack ward lay between them, as Harry considered his plan. It was clear help wasn't coming – it had been almost 20 minutes, and after those two on duty for the floor had shown up, none followed. There were now only 5 attackers remaining, all of them worse for wear – he honestly wasn't sure how one of the witches was even standing, given both her clearly-broken ankles – but he was tiring, and 5-on-1 was bad however you looked at it.

For the first time in 3 years, he wasn't sure he could win this fight. He'd always been powerful, certainly, and after … whatever it was that happened after Voldemort's death, only more so. But even a novice knew that fights were about more than power. The opposition just kept circling him, drawing back when they needed to recover, and returning with renewed vigour. In the end, it was really a matter of time.

Harry fought on for almost a full thirty minutes before he faltered. With almost crushing irony, a green flash was how it all came to a close, cast from a scant six metres away.

-(*)-

With a thump, the Man-Who-Won landed on a chair. The room was … dark. There was nothing else that could be a said of it. With a groan, he crumpled, the shame of loss and failure washing over him. He must be dead, again. Was this what it was supposed to look like? Clammy and oppressive, with barely the light to see the table before him?

Table?

A soft throat-clearing brought his attention forwards.

Before Harry there sat a man, or at least, _It_ was humanoid in shape. Swirled about the figure were robes of deepest midnight, a black that seemed to draw even the observer into itself. His wrists, where visible between embroidered sleeve and silk glove, were bony and gaunt. At his side there lay a scythe, resting unambiguously against the table.

Harry felt no shame in shivering ever so slightly as he sat before the Reaper of Men. He tried to crane his head away from the terrible vision, but scant metres away from the table at which they sat, everything was swathed in impenetrable shadow.

This animalistic fear, which seemed to seep through his very bones, was only rattled slightly as the spectre spoke, clearly and lightly in charmingly-accented English. Sort of like … Padma, actually.

"I must say, Mister Potter, you had an interesting run. Goodness knows, I almost gave up on you ever doing something of note, just confining yourself to moping around that castle and angsting about your lack of a girlfriend. And yet, here we are".

… What?

"E…E-Excuse me? Sir? I…" He trailed off, desperately unsure of how to proceed. What little etiquette training he had managed to scratch out didn't cover meetings with god-like being beyond the scale of human comprehension.

"Bah, I'm no sir, Mister Potter. Regardless, let us view things as they stand. You are Mister Harry James Potter, last of the Potter line. Defeater of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named, Champion of the revived Triwizard Tournament, Slayer of the Basilisk of Salazar Slytherin, to list but a few. Saviour of innumerable lives, both magical and mundane. Not bad, for a mere wizard of 20. Certainly so for one lacking any substantial magical education. Not bad at all".

Harry chose to remain silent. At this point, he wasn't sure if he could talk without squeaking.

"And yet, despite these heroics, there is one crucial thing you seem to be lacking, young man"

"O-cck, ahem… Oh?"

"Indeed…" At this, the figure craned forward in it's chair, seeming to regard him more closely.

"It's really quite simple my boy. The answer is, sex".

Harry blinked, taken entirely off-course.

"What do you… what are you talking about?"

"It's quite clear from where I'm sat, my boy. There's a reason why everyone won't stop talking about it, or pursuing it. Or, failing those, thinking about it every waking second. You need, as they say, to _get some_".

Despite the surreal surroundings, Harry nevertheless rose to defend himself, as any red-blooded male would.

"I've had sex, thank you very much! I'm engaged to Ginny. And… and she, she…."

"Well, she would know", muttered the spectre aside.

"And why am I here talking about this? What business is it of yours, anyway?!" He angrily rebuffed.  
The being raised two pallid hands, and shrugged. "Everyone has to have a hobby, Mister Potter. And it's not as if there's anyone around to discuss it with normally. Human relationships are just so interesting; the ebb and flow of pursuit, the ridiculous promises, the hugely-overboard gifts. It never ends". It chuckled. "Humans never seem to learn what they want, nor how they should go about it".

At this, the voice took on an audible smirk.

"Besides, you say 'what business is it of mine?'. Really, Mister Potter? I Am Death, and I Do as I Will in my domain. If this makes you uncomfortable, I could adopt a more ... _familiar_ form…"

The shadows seemed to condense on the humanoid outline, falling inwards and collapsing in on themselves, until a visage was made visible.

And what a visage it was!

"Does this _meet with your approval, _Mister Potter" Fluttered the dulcet tones of one Daphne Greengrass, all blue eyes and batted eyelashes. "I am sure things would be much more... _pleasurable, _if you were to just play along".

Harry, for the fifth time in as many minutes, fought the urge to stammer and squeak, at the sight of his first crush.

Again, the shadows burst out from the being opposite, concealing it entirely, before once more condensing to leave an all-too-familiar view once more. Harry's passions quickly withered at the witch's haggard expression and less perky attributes.

"Mister Potter!" The Scottish witch snapped, "Ogling young women is simply no way for a young man of your station to behave! Either they are properly seen to, with the utmost degree of respect, or they are politely acknowledged as future conquests!"

"Hey!" Harry re-joined, "That's not right. Stop … doing whatever it is you're doing with their appearances!"

The concealed being soon sat before him once more, faceless, cold and greatly sobered.

"If that's what it takes to stop you being such a wimp, wet-pants, then that's what I'll do! I'm on this side of the desk, you're over there. Don't like it? Tough" It retorted. "In fact, you seem to be labouring under the impression that you hold any power at all here, Mister Potter. Allow me to correct you".

"You are a wizard, bound to the Earth below you. You are born, you shall live for perhaps a century or two, and then you shall die. All the while, I shall be here, watching and ushering you and your kind on to the great beyond. I was here before your people even pulled themselves out of the primordial soup-No. That is not a validation of Darwin" The figure abruptly cut in, as Harry made to speak.

"Errr… What?"

Death smirked, at once again pushing the man off-balance.

"What, no interest in abiogenesis? The muggles do come up with some interesting, and often genuinely amusing ideas, my boy"

That… sounded an awful lot like a certain former Headmaster. Was it good or bad that Death, the embodiment of Ending that stood before him, resembled the most idiosyncratic man he'd ever known?

"Anyway, yes. True, you are one of only 14 individuals, total, whom I've deigned to speak with, and your accomplishments are quite impressive, for a mortal. However, you are here only because _I_ wish you to be, and because _I_ have a use for you".

Cowed by the rather strange dressing down – he felt simultaneously childlike, for answering back was unquestionably stupid, but also relieved. He was here for a reason.

And 'wet-pants'. Really?

"Indeed, Mister Potter. You are, perhaps one of the worst cases I've seen".

Harry started, unaware his hard-earned occlumency shields weren't up to task.

"Anyway, your inadequacies aside, I have a deal. I have something I need, and the power to grant you what you want. What say you?"

"What I want?"

The figure tilted it's head just so, as though dealing with an uncommonly thick child.

"Mister Potter, I'm not sure whether it's sunk in yet, but I Am Death. I'm Styx, Charon and Hades, all in one place. I am the Reaper of Souls, Keeper of the Last Door, The Pale Rider, The One Who Knocks… What I'm trying to say is, I control where your soul goes. Up, down, or … back"

"Back?"

"Yes, my boy, back. You can return, in both senses of the word, to sort out the horrible mess that's still there, and will continue to be until it is fixed. Or you could not".

Harry thought for a moment.

"If I go back, what happens to Ginny here?". Even if their relationship was difficult, and he still struggled with emotional intimacy, he cared for the girl.

Death again paused, and tilted just so. Somehow, superiority was conveyed even with such a simple gesture.

"Why would anything happen, Mister Potter? She would simply cease to be, at the time at which you left, that being…" Here he raised his arm, revealing a substantial silver wristwatch. "4:13PM, on Thursday the 12supth/sup of April, 2001" The arm dropped.

"So she wouldn't suffer anything? Never realise I'm gone? Woul-"

"Yes, yes, and I assume, yes." Death butted in, again with the head tilt. Harry was rapidly coming to dislike the posture. "The future is not set in stone, Mister Potter. She would not be spontaneously vanishing from all possible futures, or whatever tosh you wish to draw from your limited knowledge of the Copenhagen Interpretation".

Harry was, once more, feeling rather insulted.

"She would simply vanish, as would all others, witch, wizard and muggle, at the point at which time changed. I believe Dumbledore affirmed as much in your fifth year – I mean, think about it; If the future were definite, how are there unfulfilled prophecies? For that matter, why is Divination not held up as the foremost of the magical arts, rather than a collection of parlour tricks and a heritable drinking problem?".

The man said nothing, but seemed appeased. And chastised, Death noted with satisfaction. Damn, he was good.

"Okay… so, assuming I go through with this, what then? What can I do? The Death Eaters have money, political capital and a ring of contacts. I'm a beaten, malnourished pre-teen who can't get into the family vault until his majority, with no reason to know advanced magic"

At this, the cloaked figure seemed to smirk, before drawing himself up.

"Simply done, Mister Potter. You will have _Me_ as your patron." He announced, his pompous manner able to put even Macmillan to shame.

"…meaning?"

Death frowned, and his posture slouched.

"My ability to interact directly with the mortal world is limited to those things directly within my sphere of influence – so, if you find yourself back here, I should be able to toss you back out again. Although…" He sounded for the first time, nervous? "It is probably… _inadvisable_, for that to happen. There are those who may not appreciate my doing it, and would castigate us both for it". His more flippant manner returned. "Plus, it's a lot of bloody work, and would take messing with an awful lot of people's memories. So, Nah. Best to try and keep your insides, inside".

"Get my artefacts back into your possession. That will give me more leeway to directly intervene. Then, proceed as your discretion commands; Marry a dozen witches, conquer Magical Britain, invent a broom that can reach the moon, I don't care. You have your knowledge of the future, so use it. Although I must request that you make sure to send a certain Thomas Riddle my way".

Harry paused. He knew just how momentous the decision he was making was. This would shape the entirety of his country, and influence the world at large. Rushing headlong in would be catastrophically stupid.

"Okay. So, when do I get to go back to?"

"Well…"

-(*)-

"I believe that covers everything?"

"Well… there is the issue of Dumbledore"  
"Oh? What about him, Mister Potter?"

"He's a legilimens, isn't he? As soon as I walk into the hall, he'll know. Snape too, for that matter. Scratch that, there could even be people I don't know!"

At this, Death paused.

"Mister Potter… how much do you actually know about legilimency, and how it fits within the law?"

"It's illegal. But Dumbledore's done a load of illegal stuff in the past, and he's practically unstoppable at Hogwarts. It took the ministry two and a half years of character defamation before they could remove him. And that was only semi-permanently!"

Death sighed.

"The auror, ladies and gentlemen. One, all legilimency is illegal without prior consent of the individual or their guardian, no exceptions. Two, all magic leaves a trace. You know this. Even if you were obliviated, there would be signs that anyone who either had a suitable awareness or knew you well enough could see a mile off. Three, this is Dumbledore! Of all those around you, he's the one you should be most willing to allow to know you're a time traveller. He couldn't even bring himself to kill Gellert Grindelwald - another individual I wouldn't be opposed to you giving my greetings."

"Powerful men, such a yourself and Dumbledore, always have enemies. If there was so much as a skerrick of proof of his performing legilimency on a minor, they'd be on him like wild dogs. No. You don't need to worry about Dumbledore. Snape, however, is a valid concern. With that in mind… how does the afternoon of the 12th July 1991 sound? A few months should be long enough to re-establish any damage to your mindscape caused by the movement".

Harry thought back. The event had occurred prior to his development of proper occlumency, so a dim film hung over everything, but he recalled the day. He'd been, for all intents and purposes, thrown from the school that had eaten up Vernon's lies. One staff member had gone so far as to offer bets on how long it was before he was expelled from secondary education.

"That is … acceptable".

"Very well, Mister Potter. Brace yourself"

All at once, the shadows became all the more encompassing, and the very air became oppressive to breathe. Death seemed to float over the table and stand right before Harry, his form swirling.

A hand struck him firmly on the shoulder.

"Go get some!"

The world dissolved, and Harry saw no more.

_fin._


End file.
